


Permafrost

by orphan_account



Series: Acadieverse [4]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Soldier nor Spy are the most well-adjusted men around and an unexpected emotional connection between them has the rest of BLU tearing their hair out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“YOU’VE FAILED.”

Spy covered his face, mortified, as the RED team began cheering. It was BLU’s fifth loss in a row and the humiliation of defeat was becoming familiar. He lifted his head to see REDs strutting back to their base with the air of conquerors, and turned back towards his own. It was 5 PM local time, but the sun had already sunk below the horizon. The cloudless October sky was a sure sign it would be a cold night.

“Tabernak,” he muttered and trudged inside with his hands tucked into his armpits.

The sudden warmth and bright lights were both welcome and irritating. Spy screwed his eyes shut and tried to clench his hands into fists, but they were still too cold. He passed the conference room, which was still empty, but he knew from past experience that the team would soon gather there to shout and argue over their latest loss. Since everyone but himself had respawned after their last ill-fated attack, they would already be preoccupied with blaming each other.

Spy turned the corner and slipped into the shower room. He was wet, cold, and had lost sensation in his feet. A hot shower was much overdo.

He sat on a nearby bench and tried to slip his shoes off, but his feet were numb and clumsy. “Fuck you,” he said petulantly, and bent over to undo his shoestrings. They were wet and reluctant to unknot, and nearly as stiff as his fingers. When he pried them off, he saw rather than felt the unpleasant way his wet socks clung to his feet. No wonder he had lost feeling. Shaking his head, Spy rolled up his pants and coaxed his sock garter down his calf.

The quality of silence changed. Spy glanced up to see Soldier staring at him, boots in one hand, shovel in the other.

“Oui?” He peeled the rest of his sock off and laid it out across the bench. “I’m not going to dat stupid war room, if dat’s why you’re ‘ere.”

Soldier cleared his throat awkwardly. “Negatory. The situation has been already been analyzed.”

“Dank Christ for small mercies,” Spy said and rolled up his other pant leg. His fingers were ablaze with pins and needles, but it was easier to pry the garter off of his leg. He managed to slip the sock off and laid it out neatly besides its counterpart on the bench. His feet were white and waxy.

“Frostbite,” Soldier observed and swaggered in, tossing his boots to the side.

“Dank you, I ascertained as much.” Spy tested his weight and grimaced. If it had been painful, he could have endured it, but looking at his feet and not being able to feel anything was disconcerting. He sighed heavily and reached inside his jacket for his disguise kit. The metal casing was so cold it felt sticky. He managed to pop a cigarette into his mouth before he heard the tell-tale squeal of water through the pipes. He glanced over his shoulder to see Soldier bent over the single bathtub in the room and plugging the drain. He curled his lip in annoyance and concentrated on finding his lighter. Although he had no intention of using the bath, it sounded so much nicer than a shower, and he felt an irrational spike of resentment towards Soldier for thinking of it before he had.

His Zippo was slim, polished steel with PLAY DIRTY inscribed across the front. A gift from a previous acquaintance in Vietnam. He flicked the lid open and hunched protectively over his cigarette. It took three tries, but a small blue flame uncurled like a sleepy animal. He inhaled deeply as the first rush of nicotine hit his system and used his thumb to push the lighter shut.

“Hold on, son. I need a light.”

Soldier walked up from behind Spy, swung his leg over the bench, and sat down. He had discarded his uniform and wore only a muscle shirt and blue combat fatigues. He plucked a cigarette from the carton strapped against his helmet and held it out.

“Fine.” Spy flicked open his Zippo again. That time, it lit on the first try.

“Thanks, Frenchie.” He sat back and took a long drag on his cigarette. “You gonna do something about your feet?”

“Eventually.” Spy didn’t bother to correct his country of origin. “It’s not dat bad.”

“Hmm.” Soldier bent over and jabbed his cigarette into Spy’s left foot.

“Fuck!” He jumped and teetered onto his side, elbow landing on one of his soaked socks. “What de ‘ell?” 

“Did it hurt?”

“Of course it fucking did!”

“Then you’re right.” Soldier retrieved another cigarette and lit it off the end of his old one.

Spy stared at him incredulously, then rubbed the small burn below his ankle. “I ‘aven’t had dat done to me since Vietnam.” He shifted his weight and managed to cross his legs. “Shit, dat ‘urts.”

“You were in Nam?” Something close to admiration tinted Soldier’s tone. “Thought so.”

“Why do you say dat?”

“That lighter. All the boys were doing it.” He laughed, a quick but not unpleasant sound. “Used to put rank on them, then some nancy decided he wanted to be different and put a naked woman on his instead. Like watching girls titter over a new goddamn dress.”

Spy glanced at his Zippo and shrugged. The American pilot he had taken it from had been a simple looking boy. Handsome, even, had a pitchfork not been embedded in his face. “Sometimes it ‘elps de young ones.”

Soldier grunted, expression full of contempt. “Need guts and balls; not some sissy lighter.”

“Ha!” Spy lifted his leg to examine his foot. “If you steady de mind, you can steady de ‘and.” He curled his toes experimentally and winced. “Or so dey say.”

“Sounds like horse shit,” Soldier said with finality and eased himself off the bench.

“Oui.” Spy tucked the lighter back into his inside pocket, although the pilot’s butchered, bloodless face never quite left his mind. “Now, if you will excuse me….” He gasped as Soldier’s hands forced their way under his armpits and jabbed his ribs. “What de fuck?” He look over his shoulder to see the other man wearing a look of utmost concentration. “What are you….” The air was squeezed out of him as Soldier physically lifted him off of the bench, carried him the six feet between it and the bathtub, and plunked him feet-first into the water.

They were nearly of a height and though Spy was a compact man, it was no small feat. His stomach flopped with exhilaration before his feet touched water.

“My suit! You son of a bitch!” Spy instinctively lifted one foot and arched backwards, but the tub’s bottom was slippery and he fell in fully clothed. A tidal wave of suds smacked him in the face and he screwed his eyes shut. The water felt comfortably warm, but his feet burned as if it was boiling hot. He surfaced, spluttering, only to hear Soldier laughing behind him.

“Take it like a man, Frenchie,” he brayed from somewhere to the left, “it’s just a bit of water.” 

Spy hissed like an angry crocodile. The soapy water stung his eyes, but he managed a glare at Soldier. “Fuck you!” He twisted his body so his knees bore the brunt of his weight, and gripped the bathtub’s sides to ensure he didn’t slip again. “What is wrong with you?”

Soldier wore a shit-eating grin and sat on the bathtub’s edge to swing his legs around and soak them in the water. He bent forward and pulled Spy’s jacket side to reveal a soaked vest and tie, which clung to his chest. “You look like an A-cup at a tittie bar.”

Spy looked down to see his nipples were visible through his wet shirt. “Don’t touche me,” he growled, and righted his sodden jacket. It was a testament to how long he had been chaste that Soldier’s indelicate touch could give him goosebumps. He tried to stand up, but his feet burned white-hot in protest, and he was left to flop back in the soapy water like a child. “Tabarnak.”

“Have to thaw ‘em out, Frenchie.” Soldier took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled a toxic plume of smoke. His helmet tilted at such an angle that one of his eyes peered from underneath it. “Tell me something.”

“Depends on what it is.”

Soldier averted his gaze. “Saw that soldier son of a bitch corner you. How’d you escape?” His mouth quirked. “Unless you surrendered like a French sissy.”

“I am Quebecois,” Spy corrected, “and I escaped by killing him.”

“Huh.” That stumped the American for a moment. “How?”

“With my knife.”

“You lying shit.” Soldier crossed his arms. “My dick is bigger then that thing.”

Spy smiled enigmatically at him. “A man who feels safe is easy to kill.”

Soldier shifted so they nearly faced each other. After a long moment, he said, “Horse shit.”

“You really believe dat?” Spy leaned back to prop his arms on the tub’s edge, elbow nearly touching Soldier’s hip. “It’s not so ‘ard to kill a man without weapons.” He watched light play off of the suds. “In fact, with ‘im so close to me, it was I who ‘ad de advantage. And I used it.”

“You’re lying, Frenchie.”

Spy shot him an irritated glance. “Why do you say dat?”

“I find it extremely unlikely that a snail eating ho-mo-sexual like you could possibly beat an American soldier face-to-face!” Soldier’s jaw jutted out belligerently, eyes bulging beneath the lip of his helmet.

“I am not a ‘omosexual,” Spy replied fiercely.

“Real convincing.”

“You know what ‘appens to dem.” He met the American’s stare without flinching. “Are you really going to pull dat shit with me?”

“I’ll do what I goddamn please!” He uncrossed his arms and tossed his spent cigarette onto the floor. 

Spy looked away and didn’t deign to respond.


	2. Chapter 2

It was official. 

BLU was in a slump. 

Spy turned a page as the shouting began. He sat sideways in the rec room’s only chair with his legs dangling over the armrest. After pushing through the day’s trauma of being burned alive, he had settled in for a quiet evening. The shouting escalated and he tore himself away from a delectable sex scene to glance at the open door. It sounded like Soldier and Medic were having another argument. Furious German echoed in the hall, followed by Soldier’s flatly accented English. 

A door slammed open. 

“Do not walk away from me, you cowardly son of a bitch.” Soldier’s voice boomed in the base’s near silence. “If you weren’t sniveling behind that Rusky, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” 

It went deadly quiet. After a heartbeat, Medic walked down the hall. When his footfalls stopped, Spy strained his neck to look over his shoulder. The doctor regarded him bitterly. 

“Zis is where your meddling leads us, Herr Spy,” he said. At Spy’s puzzled expression, a flicker of doubt crossed his face, but he continued down the hall without another word. 

Soldier appeared next, bristling with aggression. Spy turned away and buried himself in his book. Lieutenant Johnson’s Johnson was in need of more attention. He smiled faintly when he ran across the phrase, “extraordinarily tight fuckhole,” and fished out his disguise kit and lighter without taking his eyes off the page. With the ease of long practice, he opened it, mouthed a cigarette by the filter, and lit it without looking. After a long drag, he held it between two fingers and stretched his arm over the chair’s back. Ashes would fall on the floor and annoy everyone, but that was part of the pleasure. 

Soldier stood and stared at him, awaiting acknowledgement. 

Spy merely turned to the next page. 

After nearly two minutes of awkward silence, Soldier cleared his throat. Spy finished the paragraph he had been reading and flicked his eyes up over the book’s spine. He said nothing to invite the conversation, which Soldier was fishing for. Another chasm of awkward silence yawned between them. 

Soldier leaned forward and swatted the book out of Spy’s hands. It bounced off of the seat’s cushioned back and struck him in the forehead. 

“Tabernak!” He covered his face with both hands. 

“I’m not standing here for my own health, you jelly-boned cocksucker. Look me in the eyes when I’m talking to you.” He leaned forward, the rim of his helmet curving just above his brows. “Do you hear me? You’re a disgrace to this team. You have been repeatedly killed by the enemy pryo despite your personal assurance to me that you’re a real fighter. Now I’m going to have to waste my extremely precious time to ensure you do your job.” He drew back and stood at his full height, mouth pressed into a line. “What do you have to say for yourself, maggot?” 

Spy stood up, retrieved his book, and left the room. 

Soldier followed. 

“Where do you think you’re going? Are you going to turn your back on the man who has to save your miserable hide?”

Voices carried easily in the base. The hallway was empty and silent, but it was the silence of a rapt audience. Somewhere, teammates were listening. Spy increased his pace. 

“Running now?” Soldier’s footsteps were loud, rapid. “There’s no where you can run from the truth, Crouton.”

Spy gave him the middle finger. 

“That’s right. Walk away. You Frenchies are all the same.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Spy glanced over his shoulder to see Soldier two steps behind him. “What is wrong with you?” 

“With me?” Soldier tensed like a bulldog about to bite. “We have been losing this war because of you.” 

Spy stopped and stared. “De meeting last week was a discussion about how everyone was doing deir jobs but you.” 

“Hmph.” Soldier crossed his arms. “You mean the meeting you skipped out on to dip your toes in a bubble bath?” 

“Dat you drew me into.” 

“That you enjoyed.” 

“It was many dings,” Spy said, “but enjoyable wasn’t one of dem.” 

Soldier bared his teeth. “Spoken like a real pansy. You were lying about killing that RED son of a bitch, weren’t you?” 

“Dis again?” Spy continued walking. “You’re obsessed with dat man.” 

“I don’t give a shit about him.” 

“Den stop bringing it up.” 

“Show me.” 

Spy glanced over his shoulder, brow raised. “What? ‘ow I killed ‘im?” 

“Yeah.” 

He glanced at the nondescript cover of his book. The contents were in French, but he was loathed to carry it around the base more than necessary. Soldier crowded behind him, shoulders squared, back curved like a bow. 

“Simple.” Spy turned on his heel and jabbed the corner of his book against Soldier’s right side. “Right ‘ere? Your liver.” He brought the book’s edge up to his own eye. “Once I’m dis close, it’s just a scrap of cloth and skin between us.” 

He thumped the book against his thigh. “Now are you satisfied?” 

Soldier’s eyes tracked the movement, then snapped back to Spy’s face. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.” He made a show of cracking his knuckles. “And when he’s got a rocket launcher? What then, Crouton?” 

Spy rolled his eyes. “I use my cloak and disguise kit, you great big idiot.” 

“A blankie and a butter knife are not tools for war,” Soldier shouted. “A real soldier should know that.” 

“Ah, and now we finally ‘ave de ‘eart of it.” Spy lit a cigarette and exhaled heavily. “Rest assured, I’m not interested in stealing your laurels.” 

Soldier’s scowl deepened. “Every member of this team must be operating at his best if we are to win.” He jabbed his finger into Spy’s chest. “And I will dog your every goddamn step until you do.” 

Spy stepped back and bowed like a courtier. “Oh, well. Merci beaucoup.” 

“I’m being serious, you fruity French bastard.” Soldier leaned forward. “Stop dying and start doing your job.” 

“Which I would love to do, if you’d stop interfering.” Spy tapped his cigarette. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.” 

He turned and left with Soldier’s eyes hot on his back.


End file.
